


Relentless Rhythm

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Breathplay, Dom John, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fight Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Rough Sex, Sub Sherlock, Whipping, mentions of fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes back to Baker Street after he finds out the truth about Mary. He and Sherlock strike up an uneasy arrangement.</p><p>  <i>The first time felt like penance.</i></p><p>  <i>The first time felt like triumph.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Relentless Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "the beat goes on" at the come_at_once challenge (prompt received and fic written within 24 hours).
> 
> This is in no way the safe, sane, and consensual approach to a D/s dynamic. As always, fanfiction is not the best place to learn good sexual practices.

Sherlock is calm when he walks into the sitting room, riding crop in hand. John is unsuspecting, sitting in his chair (if Sherlock were inclined to sentiment, he might very well call that a beautiful sight) with his laptop open, vacantly browsing a news site. He looks up when Sherlock stands in front of him, grasping the crop by the keeper and holding the braided handle out towards John.

“I want you to hurt me,” Sherlock says. His voice is even, but there is already colour high in his cheeks to betray his excitement in the idea. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth and looks expectantly down at John.

After a few moments of hesitation, when he looks down at his hands, dumbfounded, then sets aside his laptop, John takes the crop.

\---

The first time felt like penance.

John moved into Baker Street while Sherlock was back in the hospital. He sounded apologetic about it, even ashamed, when Sherlock returned home to find him there. “I didn’t trust myself to share a bed with her,” he said at the time. “I still get the nightmares, you know, and...”

“Trust issues,” Sherlock supplied. John nodded.

They don’t talk about it again for some time, until Sherlock can’t stand to hold back.

They’re already having an argument, because Wiggins has come around to the flat and, despite assurances that he had little to do with the drugs, or the fact that Sherlock was using them for a case, John is averse to the idea of him being a part of Sherlock’s circle of informants. John still hasn’t forgiven him, still doesn’t understand.

Rather than leave the flat, John’s simply ignoring Sherlock, turning his back on him and making busy in the kitchen.

“This is about so much more than the drugs,” Sherlock says, standing in the doorway and not giving John the space that he’s after. “That’s not all you’re pissed off about, but you’re not angry with her, you know.”

Silence.

“Mary. You’re not angry with her.”

“Of course I’m fucking angry with her!” John yells, wheeling around to face Sherlock. “She lied to me. From the _beginning_ she lied to me, because she saw me and knew I would believe it. She saw how”—his voice catches, and he smiles, one of those dangerous little smiles that Sherlock is the only one who fully appreciates— “she saw how fucking broken you left me and she took advantage of it. Counted on me being too screwed up to see who she really was.”

Sherlock moves closer to John, watching the way he flexes his hand as he talks about Mary. “And that’s why you’re not angry with her. You are, in a way, but both of you used each other—you were her salvation as much as she was yours. I’m the one you’re really upset with, because I’m the one who put you in that position.”

“You don’t have to remind me of what you did, and you _don’t_ get to take away everything that she did and put it on yourself.”

“Of course I do! Why did you even choose Mary in the first place? Because she was supposed to be everything that I’m not. Could you have picked a woman who you thought was farther from me?” Sherlock laughs, bitter. “Everybody _loves_ Mary. Friends with everybody she meets, so sweet, _helps_ everyone.”

“ _Shut up_ , Sherlock.” John’s fist hits the tabletop. Should be a warning sign. Sherlock moves in closer.

“Too bad that there’s something about _you_ that draws in everyone like me and like her—”

John’s fist connects with Sherlock’s mouth before he can even finish the sentence—as expected, considering that Sherlock was deliberately goading him to do it. His head snaps back from the force of it, and he grabs on to John, pulls him down with him as he feels himself falling.

They’ve been in this position before—on the floor, blood in Sherlock’s mouth, John still furious on top of him—but this time they’re alone; Sherlock grabs John, wrenches him closer, and pulls him into a kiss.

John’s still for a moment, stunned, before he kisses back viciously, sucking Sherlock’s split lip between his own and biting down hard until he wrings a thin scream from Sherlock that makes him stop. He pulls away, stammers, “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know—” until Sherlock pulls him back.

“I want you to hit me again,” Sherlock growls against his mouth.

John sits back, straddling Sherlock’s hips, and delivers an open-palmed slap across Sherlock’s face.

It produces a vicious crack that makes tears spring into Sherlock’s eyes, makes Sherlock grind up against John and rasp out, “More.”

John hits him in the ribs next, knocks the breath out of him, and then Sherlock is scrabbling at their flies, trying to free both their cocks while John slaps his other cheek then digs his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and yanks.

When Sherlock comes it’s with both of them pressed together—slick and trembling and with no semblance of rhythm as they fuck into Sherlock’s hand—and John twisting his right nipple (just above the gauze still taped to Sherlock’s chest; John snarled when he saw it) so hard that Sherlock can’t _think_ until the explosion of release hits him. John doesn’t let go until he comes just after.

John goes back to Mary the next morning. He picks up a few more of his things, then returns to Baker Street after work.

The first time felt like triumph.

\---

John was deceptively slow, tricking Sherlock into believing that he was unsure, as though they hadn’t already sorted out the morality of all of this months ago.

 _Brilliant, brilliant John,_ Sherlock thinks, as it becomes obvious that he’s been mislead. Always surprising, never predictable. _John._

“I’m going to hurt you,” John says, and he’s on Sherlock in a flash, hand a heavy weight against the column of Sherlock’s throat, “because you like it.” John’s fingers tighten just enough to send a pulse of fear through Sherlock, and he sucks in a restricted breath. “And because I like to see you take it for me. What’s your safeword?”

John loosens his grip. “Safeword,” Sherlock answers, because anything else would be utterly pedestrian.

“Good. Now get undressed, quickly, and get on the chair.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, carelessly throwing his clothes aside and clambering into the armchair. He braces his forearms along the back of John’s chair with his shoulders lowered and head resting in the crook of an elbow, knees splayed wide in the seat, and back arched to present his arse. They don't need restraints because Sherlock _wants_ this, wants to be good and to endure. For John. For himself.

John moves in close enough for Sherlock to feel that he’s still fully clothed. He knows that Sherlock likes that, that imbalance of power between them, and Sherlock appreciates that he takes the time to let him know. That wasn’t the only purpose of his move: standing close to Sherlock lets John put his hands on him, run them proprietarily over Sherlock’s skin before he covers it with his marks.

“You don’t need to count,” John tells him. “I’ll stop when I think you’re done.”

The first strike cracks resoundingly across his skin, stinging forgotten in the rush of pleasure that comes after. It lands across the cheeks of his arse—unsurprisingly, it seems to be John’s favourite part of him—as do the next three that follow. They come quickly because John is relentless, and in the past few months since the first time, John has learned how much Sherlock can take. John disperses blows at seemingly random patterns, never predictable enough for Sherlock to become bored, and they rain down across his shoulders, arse, and thighs with a sharp sting. As the lines of impact begin to overlap, Sherlock begins to hiss with each strike, and sink into the pain until—

Sherlock is floating. It’s all chemical, he knows: dopamine, endorphins, his body’s conditioned response to outside stimulus, but the facts don’t make the feeling less real.

He could absolutely fly away if it weren’t for the way that his heart keeps pounding a relentless rhythm into his brain ( _con fuoco_ , his mind supplies—always the musician, even when he can hardly focus on anything else), or the fixed point of John’s right hand, fisted into the curls at the base of Sherlock’s skull. John twists his hair and wrenches Sherlock’s throat back every time he thinks Sherlock is too far gone (he can just imagine the ridiculous C curve of his spine deepening every time John jerks his head back) and needs to be dragged back into awareness. John is the reason that Sherlock keeps getting lost in sensation, and simultaneously the force that is keeping him grounded. He can’t make such precise strikes with one hand occupied, but he’s able to land several more across the backs of Sherlock’s legs, then slides the tip between them to stroke across Sherlock’s perineum, his balls, and the base of his cock where it’s trapped against the upholstery of the chair until he whines with want.

“You look incredible,” John breathes out as he drops the crop onto the floor. He sounds every bit as high as Sherlock feels. “That white skin of yours, striped in red...” John trails off, distracted, as he strokes nails, fingers, and the warm metal of his wedding ring across the welts raising over Sherlock’s flesh so that Sherlock bucks beneath him. He digs into one of the places on Sherlock’s arse cheek where he can feel crisscrossing lines from the crop, until Sherlock writhes and lets out a high whining noise, ending in a rough exhalation of breath when John decides that he's had enough and stops.

Sherlock's skin is burning from his thighs up to the small of his back and across his shoulders; his arse feels swollen, huge, and he can imagine the heat pouring from his abused skin and into John's as he makes contact with his handiwork.

“C’mon,” John says. He gives Sherlock a sharp slap across his over-sensitized skin. “Your bed now. I want to fuck you ‘til your knees give out.”

Sherlock lowers himself backwards gingerly. He’s right about the state of his skin—he can feel it flaming against the unmarked skin of his calves as he sinks backwards and slips his feet to the floor. John has a hand on his arm to steady him and it’s a good thing, because his legs protest having been spread wide for so long; he wobbles on the first step.

“Stop,” John commands, and Sherlock does. “On your knees. I want you to crawl.”

Sherlock might have rebelled against the order, had it been given earlier. Now, with his head abuzz and body light and far away, he’s more than happy to do anything that John asks. He sinks to his hands and knees, head held high to lock eyes with John, and crawls towards the bedroom. John—unassuming, underestimated John, still wearing his shirt, cardigan, and jeans—looks positively predatory, eyes alight with his own power, as he walks backwards to the bedroom.

Sherlock feels _owned_.

“Face down on the bed,” John instructs when they arrive.

In different circumstances Sherlock would be inclined to peek, but his mind is blissfully slowed and he’s no longer impatient for what will come next, so he pushes aside the duvet and slides onto the sheets, savouring the delicious drag of his cock against the cool cotton. His focus has hardly been on his erection, because the ache of it is nothing compared to what John has put him through, and he knows that more is coming so he only absently slides his thumb through the dribble of precome at his slit, works his foreskin back and forth in a few strokes, then takes his hand away.

“Christ, I could watch you wank yourself into the sheets and be happy with that.” The mattress dips as John settles himself next to Sherlock, the hairs on his thighs tickling as they brush against Sherlock’s bare skin.

“Mm, no,” Sherlock says decisively.

John laughs. “Could do, but  I won’t. It would be a waste of having you like this. You’re down deep, aren’t you?”

“Mmm.” He is. Still floating, but not as high as he was.

“Spread for me,” John says, and Sherlock complies. John pushes a lubed up finger between Sherlock’s cheeks and works it back and forth, gently, over the pucker of Sherlock’s arsehole before he slips inside, and Sherlock lets out a deep, throaty moan at the initial stretch.

John is methodical and patient when it comes to this. “I could finger you for hours,” he had said to Sherlock the first time that he was inside him, and Sherlock believes it. It feels like he _is_ taking hours sometimes, working Sherlock open and curling two fingers inside him to brush over his prostate at the same time as he digs his fingers into some bruise or welt to keep him floating on that delicate edge between pleasure and pain.

“I could probably fit my entire hand inside you right now,” John says. His little finger has just slid in alongside the other three, sinks inside Sherlock to the proximal phalanges and sends a shudder running through the overtaxed muscles of Sherlock’s thighs. Then his thumb traces underneath the curved top of his palm, along the rim where Sherlock is stretched wide. It’s probably true, and _God_ , Sherlock would love it—he’s never been stretched so wide but John _knows_ Sherlock gets off on testing the limits of his transport and he would tell him how gorgeous he is as he sinks the meat of his palm inside and watches Sherlock come apart from the fullness. But that’s not—there’s—

“That’s not what this is about,” Sherlock manages to get out through the haze that clouds his brain. “You have to fuck me.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to explain his reasons. John knows.

John nudges Sherlock’s thighs wider apart and slips his body between them. The brush of the hair on his chest and stomach across Sherlock’s tender flesh makes him squirm, and John clamps his hands hard around Sherlock’s hips to hold him still as he guides himself in. Sherlock hisses at the breach, then whimpers when John’s first thrust in is hard and makes his pain pulse in his welts in time with his heartbeat.

It’s slow like this, face down with John flush against his back, teeth sank into Sherlock’s shoulder as he fucks into him with rolling, thrusts. It’s good, but Sherlock wants more. If this is going to be—

“I want you to break me,” Sherlock gasps out. It can’t be done, but John will try.

“Demanding,” John says, and he slaps Sherlock hard across the arse when he pulls out. He manoeuvers Sherlock into his lap as he kneels back, and quickly rams back into him. Splayed out like this with more skin in contact and a faster pace has Sherlock biting back moans as John slams his hips brutally against him.

“Better?” John asks, and when Sherlock doesn’t respond quickly enough, he uses Sherlock’s hair to pull his head back and bite at the junction of his shoulder and throat.

“Yes, _fuck_ ,” Sherlock grits out. “God. Fuck. _John_.”

Sherlock can feel John smile against his skin before he bites down again and fists his free hand around Sherlock’s cock to pull in rough strokes with every stab up into him. The combination is too much and Sherlock can feel his insides fluttering around John’s cock as his orgasm coalesces within him.

“That’s good,” John whispers, “c’mon, Sherlock, come for me.” So he does.

John groans as Sherlock pulses in his hand, and waits for him to ride out the throes of his climax before he pushes him back down against the mattress and fucks him quick and shallow, chasing his own. In the aftermath it’s almost too much to take, the welts on his skin inflamed and angry, and Sherlock whimpers long and low until John pulls out and comes in stripes across his backside.

Clean up hurts almost more than the act, now that he’s come down, but he’s grateful for John’s hands on him, wiping him gently with a wet flannel and rubbing ointment on the spots where he managed to break the skin.

“I think you’re going to have marks for days,” John says. He possibly sounds a little smug.

 _Good_ , Sherlock thinks to himself.

\---

John's going to take her back tomorrow. Some things never change—the rest of the world can decide that divorce is better than living with someone you can’t trust, but for John Watson there will never be another option than to love and live with the mother of his child.

That’s fine. Sherlock knows just as surely that there’s no way that John can live without him either. He’ll always come back for more, because both of them need what the other one can give. 


End file.
